


Be My Baby

by wtfrenchtoast



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 1963, Anal Sex, Dirty Dancing, Dirty Dancing AU, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Steve carried a watermelon, This is not in first-person, brief non-graphic non-con scene, but it doesn't happen between bucky and steve, don't be fooled by the summary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-08-23 12:48:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8328571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfrenchtoast/pseuds/wtfrenchtoast
Summary: “Hi, everybody, this is your Cousin Brucie. Whoa! Our summer romances are in full bloom, and everybody, but everybody's in love. So cousins, here's a great song from The Four Seasons.” That was the summer of 1963 - when everybody called me Stevie and it didn't occur to me to mind. That was before President Kennedy was shot, before the Beatles came, when I couldn't wait to join the Peace Corps, and I thought I'd never find a guy as great as my dad. That was the summer we went to Phillips’.Hopelessly enamored with the resort's smoking hot dance instructor, eighteen-year-old Steve Rogers finds himself in way over his head.





	1. Love Man

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you whom AU’s are not your cup of tea - there’s a significant canon divergence here, even for an AU, to stay as true to possible to plot. I had to rearrange a few minor characters around as it’s tough to neatly drop an entirely different cast of characters into another. And finally, a few creative liberties were taken with some background details. Enjoy :)

From the backseat of his father’s Lincoln, the bucolic expanse of upstate New York rolls by Steve’s open window. They’ve been driving for going on four hours. Not the longest road trip his family’s taken, not by a longshot, but his older sister’s constant, mindless chatter stretched every minute into two. The first hour was devoted to a treatise on her favorite bands, which then segued into her friends and all the concerts they were attending that summer without her. Their dad had chimed in to remind them that at their age, he was sleeping in mud overseas in the Second World War, so maybe it’d be wise to count your blessings, yeah? 

Which proved to be a fatal mistake, as then Lorraine had launched into a pretentiously ignorant lecture on international affairs, something Steve actually did have opinions on, but trying to squeeze a word in edgewise was impossible. A few times, Steve’s mother had glanced over her shoulder with a knowing, sympathetic glance that only served to irritate him more. 

By the time he spots the resort’s towering silhouette, high on a lush, flawlessly-manicured hill, he could’ve dove out the window and kissed the pavement with joy. 

Steve’s father pulls the car up to the lobby doors as two bellboys scurry around to the rear to gather their luggage. Travel-weary and restless, Steve is too disgruntled to even feel annoyed at the bellboys’ timid deference to him and his family. One of them accidentally bumps him with the corner of his mother’s trunk, and apologizes so profusely that Steve nearly snaps at him. Like he was going to have the kid taken out back and whipped for his affront - is that what the staff think of their guests? 

Steve sighs heavily, instantly guilty, and lifts a couple of suitcases onto the cart for him with a rueful smile. 

“Hey, thanks,” the bellboy says gratefully. “You want a job here?” 

“Dr. Rogers!” Chester Phillips, the aging owner of the Phillips Mountain House, calls out from the main veranda. He makes a beeline for their family and shakes Steve’s dad’s hand so enthusiastically Steve worried he’d dislocate his shoulder. The round, balding man then turns his attention on Mrs. Rogers, who politely accepts his barrage of compliments with her usual finesse. Steve, who’d always been just a little too awkward, envies her easy, natural ability to set people at ease. Being married to a highly sought-after physician, though, meant lots of evenings spent smiling and making small talk at galas and benefits and other things that made Steve’s palms sweat, so perhaps he was satisfied with being a little clumsy. 

With the keys to their cabins safely in hand, Dr. Rogers gestures to his family to follow. The valet whisks away their car, to Steve’s relief. One more minute next to his sister and no court could hold him responsible for his actions. 

The cabin is airy and immaculately kept. Steve likes it immediately, and claims one of the two smaller bedrooms for himself by tossing his bag onto the bed. His parents migrate to the master bedroom while his sister evaluates the size of the shared bathroom. Judging by her heavy sighs, it’s not quite up to her standards. 

Steve rolls his eyes and fishes his sketchbook out of his backpack. The lake, smooth as glass in the oppressive heat, is calling to him, and with any luck, he’ll get a couple good ones in before dinner.

* * *

 

Dusk brings no relief from the thick, muggy blanket of heat. Steve retreats to the cool reprieve of the cabin for a couple hours before promising to rejoin his family at the main house to listen to the brass band. 

He gets it. He really does. When it had dawned on his mother that her Stevie was going off to college that fall and they’d have an empty nest, she’d gotten herself so upset that Dr. Rogers had thrown up his hands and whisked them all away for the summer. “First vacation in six years,” Sarah Rogers had admonished. And really, he'd had no excuse not to - since he had moved to a split schedule between teaching and making rounds, he had the freedom. 

So, here they are, five hours from Brooklyn and all of Steve's friends his last summer before college. Spending quality time with his family in a luxurious mountain resort, where his every whim is immediately satisfied. 

And yet, he still finds himself counting the days until they can put this place in the rearview mirror.   

* * *

 

He climbs the narrow stone steps from the lake up to the sprawling plantation-style monstrosity. The resort is massive - does he take a left or a right from this end? Somehow he finds himself around the back of the building, where the staff entrances and kitchens are situated. The faint but unmistakable blasts of a trombone and the thunder of a bass drum guide him towards the ballroom, and he nearly reaches the wide French doors when something catches his eye. 

In the yellowed light cast from the open doorway, Steve catches a glimpse of crisp tuxedoes neatly assembled along elegant wainscoting. A low but gruff voice - Mr. Phillips, judging from the rotund silhouette - is addressing them, and if Steve had to guess from their contemptuous expressions, it isn’t a pep talk. 

Steve edges closer, just in time to catch, “There are two kinds of help here. You waiters are all college guys, and I went to Harvard and Yale to hire you. And why did I do that? Why? I shouldn’t have to remind you. This is a family place. That means you keep your fingers out of the water, hair out of the soup...and show the goddamn daughters a good time.” There’s a dramatic pause, presumably for effect. “All the daughters. Even the dogs. Schlepp 'em out to the terrace, show 'em the stars. Romance ‘em any way you want. Got that, guys?”  

Steve grimaces. He’s not stupid - there are many out there who would call Phillips’ approach, however crass, good business sense. Winning them over was a free pass into their daddies’ wallets. 

“Well, if it isn’t the entertainment staff.” 

There’s a scuffle at the other end of the room, and a group of rough-looking guys and girls trickle in, interrupting the neat line of waiters as they part to give the intruders a wide berth. They stand out in stark contrast to the professional, buttoned-up waitstaff with their cigarettes, clothes just this side of too tight, and more skin than Steve’s ever seen on a woman in real life. 

He can’t see Mr. Phillips’ face, but the disdain is obvious. Steve thinks he can actually feel the room cool by a few degrees. 

Trailing in behind them, another figure emerges, and a silence falls over the other staff. Steve cranes his neck to get a better look at whose presence commands such deference.  

It’s a man - he strides in, easy and unaffected by the glares from the servers. Tall, dark-haired, well-built, dressed in slim black jeans and a black t-shirt that clings to absolutely  _ everything _ . 

Steve sucks in a tense breath. 

As he draws closer and his face comes into view, Steve is struck absolutely dumb. He is  _ stunning _ . His gaze darts from one flawless feature to the next, hungrily drinking it all in - cheekbones that could cut diamonds, bottomless pale eyes that seem to glow in the dim light. Those lips, though. Red and curved just so. His lips send something hot and electric through Steve that lights his nerves like a match to gasoline. 

The stranger slows to a saunter until he's face to face with Mr. Phillips. Smug as hell and devil-may-care, he snaps his gum right in the older man’s face. 

Mr. Phillips is not so easily fazed. He jabs his finger pointedly as he sneers, “Listen, wise ass, you got your own rules. Dance with the daughters. Teach 'em the mambo...the cha-cha, anything they pay for. That's it. That's where it ends. No funny business, no conversations, and keep your hands off!” Phillips isn't screwing around. Something tells Steve that this isn't the first time they've had this discussion. 

Mr. Wise Ass says nothing, just continues to peer at the proprietor like he is a rather unremarkable insect. The tension builds for a moment too long. Then he cracks a wicked smirk. “Whatever you want, Boss Man.” His voice is low and smooth as butter. 

“It's the same at all these places. Some ass in the woods, but no conversation,” mumbles a slick-looking kid in a cropped leather jacket. His companion snickers. 

Phillips must have ears like a hawk. He instantly shoots back, “Watch it, Rodriguez.” 

They must take that as their dismissal, because the group starts to disperse after that. One of the waiters sidles up to Steve’s mystery man. “Can you keep that straight, Bucky? What you can’t lay your hands on?” he taunts. 

_ Bucky _ . Steve can feel his pulse thundering in his ears. 

“Just put your pickle on everybody’s plate, college boy, and leave the hard stuff to me.” His grin is wide and predatory, and leaves Steve a little breathless. He watches him all the way until he and the rest of the entertainers disappear into the dark hallway. 

Steve comes back to himself a little then, like the last chunks of ice on an early spring day, as his head swims - when had he stopped breathing altogether? Wide-eyed, he stumbles through the main doors to the grand ballroom. 

* * *

 

Steve mostly sleepwalks through the evening, only half-listening while his parents and sister chatter amongst themselves. He’s so zoned out that when his mother asks him if he’d accompany Lorraine to a dance lesson tomorrow, he blurts out a “Yes!” purely from guilt. 

“I’ve always wanted to learn the merengue,” she raves. “Even if I have to have my brother for a partner.” What did he do to deserve such a considerate, thoughtful sister? 

“If you’d rather, I heard they’re playing charades in the lobby,” Steve offers innocently, unable to help himself. Lorraine throws him a withering glance. 

Out on the dance floor, the band brings to a close the graceful foxtrot they had opened the evening’s dancing with, and the lively notes of a mambo kick up in its place. Steve’s eyes skim absentmindedly over the crowd, finding little that held his interest, until he notices one couple in particular causing a stir in the center of the parquet. The dance floor quickly clears to make room. 

It’s Bucky. He’s flying over the dance floor so fast Steve can’t even get a clear look at his face but he just  _ knows _ . He’s paired up with an auburn-haired beauty who matches him step for step, whirling and twisting and leaping with an otherworldly athleticism. Steve’s no musician, but even his amateur eye can tell that their timing is flawless, like their heartbeats themselves are driven by the beat. 

The band crashes through a powerful crescendo and Bucky tosses his partner in the air, effortless and at the same time beautifully calculated. It’s a masterpiece. Steve’s fingers actually itch for a pencil and paper, even though there’s no way on God’s green earth he could do justice to the sight before him. 

Bucky leads his counterpart into a spin, pirouetting her like a ballerina across the room. With a few graceful leaps, she returns to his arms in a dramatic swan dive that stops mere inches from the floor. The band belts out its final notes, and the room applauds in a wild rush. Bucky pulls their bodies flush together in a fevered embrace, close enough to kiss, but then they abruptly withdraw from each other and face the room with bright smiles. 

“Bucky Barnes and Natalie Rushmann, ladies and gentlemen!” the emcee booms out from the stage. The pair takes a gratuitous bow before hurrying off into the crowd. Steve can only stare at where they stood only moments before, half-expecting to see scorch marks burned into the hardwood. 

The maelstrom whipping through his head makes him want to slam it into the mahogany tabletop before him. It’s...envy. And admiration. What is it like to waltz (pun fully, painfully intended) through life with that kind of confidence, that coordination? To be so damn good at something that you could bet your own skin on it? Steve can barely make it up a flight of stairs without tripping over his own feet. 

He shifts uncomfortably. The way his pants are suddenly and excruciatingly stifling is glaring proof, though, that  _ appreciation _ wasn’t the only thing he was feeling. 

He loosens his tie and tosses his parents a sloppy excuse (“Tired? But you just took a nap!”), with only a twinge of remorse for his dishonesty as he makes a beeline for the door. 

* * *

 

Damn it. Damn it all to hell. 

Steve tugs futilely at the front of his slacks, hoping that the inky blackness of the summer night will hide his...condition. Confused, mortified, and very, very aroused, he stomps angrily back to his cabin. Even the sound of his frustrated stomps, though, can’t chase the beautiful Bucky from his mind. 

So distracted is Steve that he nearly trips over a young man, struggling to balance three watermelons in his arms. “Whoa! Sorry, pal, didn’t mean to run ya over.” Self-consciously, he angles himself away

The kid barely acknowledges him, just vaguely grunts in his direction, still trying to juggle the melons. In the scant moonlight, Steve catches a glimpse of his face - it’s the baby-faced bellhop from their arrival. He nearly loses a melon when Steve reaches over and catches it before it crashes to the ground. With a grateful smile, the kid breathes, “Thanks. Don’t know how I was gonna manage that, honestly.”

“No sweat,” Steve replies. “Where you headed?”

“Up there,” and he points to a bungalow up the hill, which is bustling with light and music and people spilling out on all sides. A party, then. A party that looks a hell of a lot more interesting than the one he just left. 

“I can give you a hand,” Steve offers and steps closer. “It’s a long way up.” 

The kid - and he realizes after that the “kid” has probably got a few years on Steve himself - pauses, and really seems to notice him then. Steve takes in the tight, faded jeans and Phillips’ Mountain House t-shirt in contrast with his well-cut suit and silk tie. 

Warily, he shakes his head. “No guests allowed. House rules.” Steve shrugs and makes to hand the weighty melon back to its owner when he backpedals and stammers, “Alright, alright, fine. But you can’t tell nobody, got it? Your parents would kill you, and Phillips would have my head on a platter.” 

Steve nods, and stumbles after his newfound conspirator up the steep incline, the solid weight of the watermelon resting safely against his chest. 

* * *

 

Steve is breathing a little harder when they reach the rickety bungalow. His companion greets a few partygoers hanging nearby; he doesn’t introduce Steve. As they edge their way inside, the dense fog of cigarette smoke nearly chokes Steve, but luckily no one pays any mind to his sputtered coughs. Once his eyes quit stinging and he can blink them open again, his jaw practically dislocates itself from his skull. 

People, packed in like sardines, their bodies gyrating and undulating to the pop music blasting from the record player in the corner. Steve’s gaze widens - it dawns on him with startling clarity why resort guests aren’t invited. They’re dancing, but it’s no Mashed Potato, that’s for damn sure. The ladies are draped on their partners like tinsel on a Christmas tree, grinding against them so provocatively that he’s surprised they're still clothed. The fellas aren’t exactly protesting - as Steve takes in the scene, clutching his watermelon for dear life, he catches one guy with his face buried in his girl’s cleavage. Another grabs his counterpart’s skirt and flips it high, twirling her in dizzying circles all the while. 

A whoop sounds out from the middle of the crowd, carrying high above the blaring music. A collective, boisterous cheer follows as Bucky and Natalie blow in like hurricanes, weaving and twining through the couples with ease. They instantly slide right into the beat like they’ve been there all night. 

“That’s my buddy, Bucky Barnes. He got me the job here,” the bellboy informs Steve kindly. 

“They sure know how to make an entrance,” Steve shouts back over the din, eyes glued to where Bucky’s got Natalie’s knees resting on his shoulders as she teasingly swishes her hot pink skirt back and forth over the crowd. The other dancers hoot and holler in delight. “They’re beautiful together.”

“No kidding,” agrees his companion. “You’d think they were a couple.”

Puzzled, Steve frowns. “Aren’t they?”

“Nah. Not since we was kids.”

Steve watches them carefully, awe written all over his boyish face. The song fades as another replaces it, the beat familiar - Otis Redding, it comes to him a moment later. 

If Steve thought what he walked into was scandalous, it’s nothing compared to the mind-boggling level that escalates before him. A few more minutes in here and he’s going to have to take a dive in the lake. 

He turns to set down the watermelon that he’s still been dumbly holding, and abruptly finds himself face-to-face with the lovely Natalie. She’s got a hungry, predatory curl to her lips and his mouth is suddenly dry as sandpaper. “C’mere, sweet cheeks,” the beautiful redhead purrs. She grabs his tie with one slender hand and leads him onto the dance floor like a dog on a leash. Before Steve can even think to protest, she jerks her hand sharply, yanking him to her, and snakes her arms around his neck. 

Steve is paralyzed. One gentle sway of her hips, pressed flush against his, and then another, rolling seductively against his tense, petrified body. 

“Relax,” she coos in his ear. She hitches one slender thigh high up around his waist. 

But he can’t. He’s got two left feet on his best day. He’d avoided school dances like the plague and even tried to duck out of his cousin’s wedding last year. 

Fingertips come to rest on his hips, far too careful to be an accident. Alarmed, Steve jerks away, but is held fast as a wall of muscle presses close behind him. “Sssh,” a low, gravelly voice hushes, warm against the nape of his neck. “Just wanna help.” 

It’s him,  _ it’s him _ , Steve hasn’t even seen his face and he just  _ knows _ , and now he’s got his hands grasping at his hips - 

“Put your hands here,” the voice murmurs as he actually takes Steve’s trembling fingers and sets them firmly on her tiny waist. “Eyes on her.” 

Shakily Steve obeys. And then, God almighty, Bucky begins to  _ move _ , grasping at Steve’s hips and fitting himself right up against his back. The smell of clean sweat and cigarettes floods his senses; for a split second he’s so dizzy he could pass out. Bucky rolls his body forward, forcing Steve’s to do the same, but stilted and awkward. Natalie tosses her head back and laughs, high and pretty. 

“Relax,” he urges. There’s that damn word again. Wildly Steve wants to scream out that he  _ can’t _ , goddammit, can’t you people see that he’s on the verge of a fucking heart attack here - 

Bucky repeats the slow, rhythmic motion again, and this time Steve’s caught off-guard just enough that it travels through him like a hot knife through butter. “Good boy,” he croons approvingly. He slides one of Steve’s hands to the middle of Natalie’s back just in time for her to drop herself into an impossible arch, leaving her hips melded to his. The long line of her flawless torso, interrupted only by the inviting curve of her breasts - it all lay before him. As she snakes herself back upright, Steve catches a wicked smile at the corner of her lips. 

One heartbeat at a time, he loses himself in the searing, intoxicating friction of their bodies against his. Natalie’s laying it on thick, impossibly serpentine in her sensual undulations. Bucky’s fingers burn through the stiff fabric of his dress shirt as he guides Steve’s movements with his own. His thighs are starting to ache from the wide stance he holds, but the pain is detached, disconnected. Has he ever been this hard in his life? 

“You’re doing good, kid,” Bucky says into the soft skin beneath his ear. Steve shivers and catches a moan just before it leaves his lips. “So good.” The music hits a particularly rhythmic patch and all coherent thought is chased from his mind as Bucky’s hands snake up Steve’s chest. His fingers trace along the swells of his ribs - gentle, but deliberate. 

Natalie seems to notice the advances that her partner is making on Steve, and ramps up her tactics accordingly. She sneaks one of Steve’s hands around and plants it firmly on her ass with a mischievous smirk. Guiding it down to her thigh, she hitches it high on Steve’s hipbones, brazenly grinding herself against his crotch. 

It’s the headiest feeling he’s ever known. Steve can’t help but feel a little like a particularly amusing toy batted between them - two cats with a mesmerized, enchanted mouse. He glances around but the other dancers pay them no mind, lost in their own little bubbles. 

Abruptly, and much sooner than Steve would have preferred, the song ends with a flourish. The dance floor cheers its appreciation, and with hardly a second glance, the pair unravel themselves from Steve. Amid the hazy fog of cigarette smoke and thick mugginess of the summer night, they disappear into the crowd. 

Leaving Steve alone, with nothing but a poorly-hidden, painful hard-on to show for it. 


	2. Overload

There’s a certain rhythm to these summer gigs - lessons in the mornings, classes in the afternoons, demos in the evenings. Lather, rinse, repeat. He’s exhausted down to his bones.

Bucky swirls the dregs of his tepid beer around in the bottle, slick with condensation, and settles back into the Adirondack chair. His cabin isn’t anything fancy, but it’s got a killer view of the lake and a decent amount of privacy, and for him, that’s more than enough.

Nat drops into the chair beside him, nursing a beer of her own. “The hell was Sam thinking, bringing a guest in?” she muses, irritation twisting her pretty features.

Bucky shrugs. “Wilson’s got a thing for strays.”

“Yeah, well. One day one of those ‘strays’ is gonna get us all shit-canned.”

He can’t argue with that. It’s happened before. But Nat’s hardly one to talk. “Didn’t stop you from climbin’ him like a tree.”

“Who, the kid? Well.” She smirks devilishly and takes a long pull from her Rheingold. “Damage was already done by then. Might as well give him something to remember us by.”

Bucky snickers. “Amen to that,” and clinks his beer to hers.

Down below, a rustle from the shoreline perks Bucky’s ears. Probably a deer or something.

Or maybe a bear. Hopefully not a bear. Could it be a bear? They are in the mountains, after all. He sets down his bottle with a clink.

Another rustle, then what sounds vaguely like a woman’s voice, but her words are unintelligible. All Bucky can catch is an anxious tone, and an admonishment that follows soon after.

A second voice, this one a low murmur and a couple octaves deeper. Then the woman, again, louder. This time, Bucky doesn’t need to catch any words to hear the distress.

Bucky slides a sideways glance at Nat, who stares into the distance, noncommittal. She isn’t as inclined to throw herself headfirst into potentially hazardous situations as he is.

Silently he sets his beer bottle on the wooden railing and slips down the rickety stairs, thankfully without too much noise. The tall reeds that line the edge of the lake muffle his footsteps.

It’s less than a minute’s walk before Bucky happens upon them. As he gingerly steps closer, the moonlight catches on a sharp, scruffy profile - the familiarity of which makes his stomach drop. “Brock?” He stops short in disbelief. “The hell you doing, man?”

With a furious sneer, Brock snarls over his shoulder, “None of your goddamn business.” His requisite dress shirt is ripped open and his tie tossed over his shoulder.

Bucky peers past him, eyes narrowed. He takes in the terror in the young woman’s eyes, her dress torn halfway to shreds, the skirt of which is hiked high around her waist. Carefully, he replies, “Doesn’t look like it’s hers, either.”

Rumlow shoots him a patronizing smile. “Relax. Some broads, they like gettin’ roughed up a little. I’m just giving her what she wants.” His wolfish grin widens. He holds himself like a Rottweiler – wiry, vicious, ready to snap.

Bucky’s blood boils, but he stands his ground. “Get off her, Brock.”

“Or what?” the shorter man taunts. “You gonna make me?”

The heavy sigh that courses through him is tired, resigned. Fucking summer gigs, he curses to himself as he curls one hand into a solid fist.

***

At first, the only thought Steve could haphazardly piece together is _this dream sucks_. There’s shouting, and the high-pitched, shrill crash as something heavy and expensive shatters to the floor. A dull thump and the creak of wicker furniture. What snaps him awake, though, is the sharp crack of the screen door abruptly reuniting with its frame.

As his consciousness swims dazedly to the surface, voices begin to emerge from the fog. He easily picks out his mom’s, then his dad’s heavy baritone enters and that’s never, ever a good thing.

“Dr. Rogers,” somebody pants, “I-I’m so sorry, sir, to wake you, but I know you’re a doctor and my friend here, he-he got his arm busted up-”

“It’s all right. Can you sit up, son?” That’s his Doctor Dad voice. “There we go. Can you move your fingers?’

Steve stumbles out of bed, wide-eyed. The commotion fails to even startle his sister, who sleeps like she’s in a coma, but once he realizes who his dad is tending to, he doesn’t think he’ll be going back to bed for quite some time.

The guy whom Steve tagged along with to the staff party is hovering worriedly over one Bucky Barnes, who’s clenching his teeth and sweating as Dr. Rogers tenderly examines his left shoulder. “You said you heard a noise, like a crack? Or a snap?”

“Yeah,” Bucky grits out.

“Sarah,” his father calls over his shoulder, eyes never leaving his patient. “Grab me some ice and a towel, will you?” His mother hurries away, wrapping her robe tightly around her as she breezes past them.

Steve can only stare dumbly as Dr. Rogers attends to Bucky’s injury. Even to his groggy, untrained eye, he can tell the prognosis isn’t great – the swelling is unmistakable and despite Bucky’s best efforts, his eyes scream with agony.

The staff party guy, now relieved that his friend is in good hands, slumps against the white beadboard next to Steve. “Not how I intended to spend my night,” he remarks dryly, crossing his well-muscled arms over his chest. He startles then, as if remembering he left the iron on, and turns to Steve abruptly. “I don’t think we properly met. Sam Wilson,” and offers his mahogany-skinned hand to Steve.

“Steve Rogers.” They shake briskly. “May I ask how…?”

“No,” piped up Bucky, firm and decisive. “You may not.” Sam rolls his eyes, tossing a hand in Bucky’s direction, a silent _well there you go_.

They don’t speak again until Steve’s dad is finished setting the arm as best he can, and wrapping it in a rudimentary splint. He hands Bucky a bottle of aspirin and promises him that they’d get a proper cast in the morning, when the nearby clinic opens. Bucky thanks him profusely and offers to pay him for his services, but the doctor waves him off.

Steve blinks owlishly, realizing as the screen door smacked shut behind them that he’d watched the entire scene unfold wearing just his underwear.

 

“Quit splashing, Lorraine, you’re gonna ruin my sketchbook.” Steve flings his arm up just in time to shield himself from the incoming spray of lake water. Mumbling to himself, he migrates along the narrow dock, closer to the shore. Lorraine frolicks through the water, heedless of her brother’s complaint.

Two more months, he reminds himself. Two more months and then he’ll only have to see her on holidays.

Once he’s satisfied that he’s safe from the splash zone, he settles comfortably into the sand. He’s got a perfect view of the July sun as it simmers on the gently rippling water, and he’d like to seize the opportunity while it’s there.

No sooner does he set his pencil to paper when his eye catches a familiar figure, left arm held close, not far down the muddy shore. It’s only been a few days since the night that Steve’s not referring to as The Florence Nightingale Incident, and he’s seen neither hide nor hair of Bucky until now. Not for lack of trying, though – he’d “accidentally” wandered into a few of the group dance lessons held out on the lawn, hoping to catch at least catch a glimpse, but to no avail.

A second silhouette trails into view, this one with a mess of auburn tumbling over her shoulders. She’s got her hands on her hips, feet planted, and from the look on her pretty features Steve’s glad he can’t make out what she’s clearly barking at Bucky. Whatever Bucky shoots back at her only serves to incense her further, and she throws her arms into the air.

Steve glances down and realizes he’s suddenly standing. Wouldn’t hurt to say hi, since he’s…a good hundred yards away. Um. He’s just going to ask how he’s feeling, Steve reassures himself. Just…happened to be walking by and wanted to know if he’s doing all right, if there’s anything Steve can do. That’s no crime, right? Still clutching his sketchbook and pencils, he starts at a leisurely (but not too leisurely) pace towards the pair. The heavy willow trees that separate the manicured lawn from the lakeshore keep him hidden for most of the walk.

As he approaches, and the voices grow louder, he begins to wonder if maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.

“James.” _James?_ “I just can’t believe that you went and got your ass kicked into next week.”  

“It ain’t my fault, Nat! That fucker was gonna rape her - what do you expect me to do, huh? Stand there and fuckin’ watch?” His eyes blaze, livid. Steve’s jaw drops a little at this revelation.

“I didn’t say that,” Natalie shoots back, voice low and deadly.

“Then what the fuck are you saying? You would have done the same damn thing if you were in my shoes! Except you wouldn’t have me riding _your_ ass about it.”

“Would you just shut the hell up for a second? I’m pissed because now we’re gonna lose an entire fucking season’s worth of pay and a good gig for next summer. Excuse me if I’m not allowed to be a little annoyed about that!”

“I already told you, we ain’t gonna lose it. I can manage just fine - argh! What the hell was that for?”

“‘Manage just fine?’ I barely touched you. This isn’t happening, Barnes.”

Steve peeks around the thick tree trunk that separates him from the pair. Both of their fists are clenched tightly at their sides, glaring at each other with no small amount of fury. He feels a little like he’s about to step into the lion’s den, but he’s always been the self-sacrificing type anyway. “Uh, hi.”

Both of their heads whip around to direct their glares at the interloper. “What?” they both spit, more of a warning than a question.

“Hi. I, uh, just was passing by, and s-saw you, and your, um, arm.” Bucky grimaces, and Steve mentally flicks himself in the forehead. “How are you…feeling?”

Jesus. That scowl – Steve’s damn lucky he’s not a scorch mark on the grass. “Hunky-dory,” Bucky sneers, lifting his injured arm.

“Right. Well, I just wanted to, y’know, see if there’s anything I could do. To help.” His ears begin to burn, and the misguided tenacity that led him here in the first place was rapidly starting to slip.

Bucky scoffs, chewing his lip. He’s got a cigarette rolling between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. “Nah, kid. Unless you got four grand sittin’ in your back pocket,” he mutters.

“For the clinic?” Steve frowns. “I can talk to my dad, I’m sure he could pull some strings-“

“No, not for the clinic.” He sighs, and runs his good hand through his dark hair. When he speaks again, it’s low and gritty, but the venom seems to have drained. “I can’t dance like this. Can hardly tie my own damn shoes.” Steve could swear he heard Natalie whisper _finally_ , but he can’t really tell, there was a breeze, so who knows? “Phillips ain’t gonna pay me to stand by and talk people through the mambo.”

“Can’t someone else do them?”

“No,” he bites back. “Everybody else’s got jobs of their own to do.” The unspoken _unlike some people_ hangs heavy between them. “It ain’t even just the lessons, Nat and I got a gig at the Sheldrake in two weeks. We gotta perform or we lose all our pay and the job for next summer.”

“What? It’s one gig, how can they do that?”

“It’s a contract,” pipes up Natalie. “We have to keep up our end, or the whole deal’s off.”

And just like that, the fight goes rushing out of Steve like air from a popped balloon. Money. Isn’t that always what lay between the devil and the deep blue sea? This isn’t a summer job to bank some extra cash for beer. For Bucky and Natalie, this is survival. Steve’s veins rush with the sudden indignation of it all, how just plain old unfair it is.

Not that Steve has any experience with that kind of struggle. He has no illusions about his life as the child of a doctor and all of the little luxuries it affords him. As he stands awkwardly before the pair, that contrast seems to draw an invisible line between them.

And then, Steve gets an idea.

 

***

 

Bucky stares at the kid like he’s sprouted a damn third head. “You. You want to...dance.”

Stubborn to the end. “Yes.”

“For me.”

“Yes.”

“You.”

“Yes.” By now the shorter man’s eyebrows are lifting dubiously, like maybe his dad should check out Bucky’s hearing, too.

“Jesus.” He finally lights the cigarette he’s been toying with for the past five minutes, and that first drag manages to keep what’s left of his patience from tumbling over the edge. “You got dance experience?” he asks bluntly, despite knowing full well what the answer will be.

“No. But I learn fast, and you got a terrific partner. It’s not impossible.”

Bucky’s shaking his head before he even finishes speaking. “No, no. This is a waste of time.”

“I don’t know, Buck,” Natalie cuts in, a curious tilt to her head and a growing smile spreading on her pretty face. “I think he could do it. We already know he can move,” and the kid’s ears are instantly scarlet, Bucky notices, “and you can teach anyone, you know that.”

He sighs. “Look, kid-“

“Steve,” he interrupts almost reluctantly. “It’s Steve.”

Bucky doesn’t miss a beat. “Steve. What you’re trying to do here, it’s nice and all, but mind your own business, will ya? We can handle our own.” With that, he turns on his heel and starts a straight, determined beeline towards the resort. He doesn’t have time for this. He needs another pack of smokes and a shower and a clear head, so he can figure out how the hell to dig himself out of this mess-

“I know how you got hurt.”

His feet stop before the rest of him does, and he nearly topples over. With a controlled glare he slowly turns. “What?”

“I know how you got hurt,” Steve repeats. “What you did. What you were trying to stop. People like that, who’d put themselves in harm’s way to help someone else? World needs more of that. I think of it as just, um, paying it forward. Or backward, in this case.”

Bucky shoves his hands in his pockets, the blinding summer sun narrowing his eyes into a squint. Whoever this guy is, wherever he’s from, he sure isn’t cut from any cloth Bucky’s ever seen before. Either really crazy or really stupid cloth, that is.

Bucky himself could fall into both of those categories any day. Which is why he sighs, and mutters:

“Okay.”

 

***

 

“Sorry! Sorry.”

“You don’t step on the one. You gotta start on the two. Find the two. Understand?”

“Yes, yes, okay.”

“It’s one, two, three, four. When the music starts, you don’t dance until two, got it?”

“Bucky, relax. It’s his first day.”

“Yeah, and it’s gonna be his last if he doesn’t start on the damn two this time. And…here we go. One, two – dammit, what’d I just say about the two?!”

 

***

 

“Concentrate. Feel the music. The steps aren’t enough, you have to relax and feel it through your whole body-“

“How am I supposed to concentrate and relax at the same time? Do you even know what you’re saying?”

“He doesn’t, don’t let him fool you.”

“Nat, can it or I might forget to tell him to catch you on that last turn. You don’t mind doin’ a solo, do ya, Steve? Steve? …Steve?”

           

***

 

“Steve! Aren’t you coming to dinner?” His mom pokes her head into the doorframe, mild concern worrying her kind features.

Startled, Steve lifts his messy bedhead from the pillow. “Hm? No, no, you guys go on without me. Not hungry.”

She frowns. “Are you feeling alright? I haven’t seen you sleep this much since that time you had bronchitis.” Her brow furrows deeper and Steve can actually see the anxiety begin to take hold.

“Mom.” He fixes her with as clear of a gaze as he can manage in his half-awake state. “I’m fine. Just got a little too much sun lately, is all.”

She regards him carefully before nodding in hesitant agreement. “Be back in an hour. If you change your mind-”

“I know. Thanks.”

He’s asleep again before the screen door even slams shut.

 

***

 

“…and down, twist, then the bow.”

Steve bows, all right, bows so well that his balance sails completely out the window and he flings himself backward, ass over teakettle. Natalie manages to gracefully tumble out of his way and narrowly misses getting whacked across the face by Steve’s elbow. He gives up and goes slack on the dusty wood floor, just the steady patter of the rainstorm to applaud him.

“For fuck’s sake. You trying to kill her?” Bucky’s voice cuts through the wet, muggy air, just as cranky and plaintive as he’s been for the past hour they’ve been rehearsing this sequence. “You gotta concentrate. All I see is somebody dead set on throwing out his back before he’s thirty. That what you want?”

Steve can’t answer, because the roaring in his ears has drowned out every last word. Really, it’s remarkable that it’s taken this long to ignite Steven G. Rogers’ renown temper, since far less antagonizing is usually required to set him ablaze. Too distracted, it seems, by Bucky’s sinewy arms, his eyes like the Long Island Sound, the cocksure swagger he positively radiates.

But, after nearly four hours of relentless practice in ninety-degree weather, dripping in so much sweat he can’t tell if it’s even his, and Drill Sergeant Barnes over here giving him shit all the while, his patience is wearing somewhat thin.

“Yes,” he hisses furiously. “As a matter of fact, it is. We do the show in two goddamn days, you won’t show me the lift, I don’t know if I’m turnin’ right or left or upside-fucking-down, and I am doing all this to save your miserable ass when what I really wanna do is _kick it to kingdom come!”_

No one moves, not for a few endless heartbeats. As Steve’s heart rate drops bit by bit, he feels the bite of his fingernails into the meat of his palm, the blood pounding through his veins like a freight train. He realizes he’s about six feet closer to Bucky than he remembers being. Bucky, meanwhile, hasn’t moved an inch, an unreadable expression floating on his handsome face.

Those eyes, boring into Steve’s – the term _thousand-yard stare_ meant very little to Steve until that moment. He shivers.

“Nat, go home. We’re done for today.” Out of the corner of his eye, Natalie shrugs but collects her jacket before disappearing in a flash of red hair. Steve turns to follow suit.

“Not you.”

He freezes.

“Let’s get out of here. Just you and me.”

“What, in this mess?” Steve gawks, gesturing weakly at the monsoon carrying on outside.

“You scared it’s gonna ruin your ‘do? That ship has sailed, my friend,” Bucky shoots back. A retort dies on Steve’s tongue when he catches Bucky’s half-grin, clear as day despite the weather, and his breath catches in his throat. “Come on. You could use a change of scenery, if nothin’ else.”

Steve ~~pretends to~~ consider it for a moment before nodding his agreement.

Bucky’s eyes crinkle when he smiles, full-on and warm. “Atta boy.”

 

***

 

“You…wanna go swimming. In the rain.” The crook in Steve’s eyebrow does nothing to deter the taller man, who’s already halfway down the beach, shirt tossed carelessly into the sand. The pants come next, and suddenly Steve’s reticence to join him has very little to do with the weather.

“But, your arm?” he tries weakly.

With a whoop, Bucky splashes into the shallow lake, immediately dunking himself under and emerging gracefully like some kind of mythical sea creature, despite the sling cradling his left arm. Steve swallows the lump in his throat, paralyzed in his spot beside Bucky’s car.

Water sluices down the cut of Bucky’s abs. The unfairness of it all, of _life_ , twists Steve’s insides miserably.

“Awful lonely in here all by myself, Rogers,” the Greek god in question calls out over the staccato beat of the rain.  

“You don’t say,” Steve responds dryly, even as his feet begin to carry him forward, drawn towards Bucky as always. With far less fanfare than his companion, he strips off his t-shirt, pants and socks, leaving him in nothing but his undershorts. He scuttles to the edge of the water.

“Don’t be shy,” pokes Bucky. “Ain’t nothin’ I haven’t seen before.” He winks, and Steve instantly flushes red as a beet.

Once fully immersed in the cool lake water, Steve had to admit that he did feel considerably more relaxed than he had in days. He slips under easily and lets the sweat and dirt and frustration be carried away. Bucky seems content to laze around, keeping all but his head and neck underwater.

Steve rests back on the surface, weightlessly floating, lulled by the water’s gentle rhythm. The tension seems to seep from his exhausted muscles into the depths of the lake. Minutes pass before he catches Bucky, still as a statue, staring from the corner of his eye.

Steve plants his feet on the sandy bottom before facing him head-on. If he had any doubts about it before, he surely has none now. Stormy blue eyes still locked unabashedly on Steve, trailing down his flat belly and…lower, where his shorts peek out from under the waterline. Pupils huge and round. Hungry.

Steve had spent many, many nights imagining being pinned under the intimate weight of that gaze. His entire chest reverberates with the pounding of his heart, and despite the…refreshing temperature of the small lake, he feels himself begin to stiffen.

If Bucky leans in now, if his fingers were to slide down the line of his back, if those plush lips landed on his own, there would be no saving Steve. He’d fold like a house of cards and gladly, at that.

They stand, frozen, for several endless moments. Finally, Bucky clears his throat and says in a voice far too gravelly, “I, uh, I never actually said thank you. For you doing…all this. Matter of fact, I only been a real asshole about it. I’m sorry.” His eyes meet with Steve’s, and the naked vulnerability that shines through wrenches his heart. “People don’t usually do me favors unless they want something in return. Even if they say they don’t. I guess I’ve just been waiting for the other shoe to drop, with you.” He turns away.

Steve absorbs Bucky’s words, tasting them, tamping down the resulting bitterness at the hardships Bucky’s faced in his young life. With fire simmering in his veins, he commands, “Look at me.”

The taller man complies with quiet resignation. Steve squares his shoulders and speaks clearly, purposefully. “Consider this one repaid in full.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for the kind words & encouragement for this fic :) I'm trying to update this much more frequently than I have been able to and the comments keep my momentum going!
> 
> Be warned - ahead there be porn. This story earns its E rating in full!


	3. Cry to Me

“Keep your head up, eyes on her. Frame locked. Don’t start ‘til the two.”

“I got it.”

“Trust Nat, okay? She knows what she’s doing. Let her lead and she’ll make it look like you’re leading, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Deep breaths.”

“Right.”

“You’ll be fine.”

There’s something so honest in those clear blue eyes of his that Steve can almost believe him.

*

The lights, Steve can barely see his own feet for the glare –

“The Sheldrake Hotel is proud to present James Barnes and partner in ‘Mambo Magic!’”

That first blast of the opening notes nearly knock him off his feet but Natalie digs her fingers into his jacket at the last second, wrenching him back onto the stage.

One-two ( _don’t start til the two, Jesus, Rogers, you hear a word I said_?) three-four –

“Relax,” she whispers.

And just like that, they’re off. Steve’s world narrows down to a hypnotic chant, punctuated by Natalie’s stage-whispered reminders and directions.

One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, left turn, catch and twist, one-two-three-four…

_That’s it. Hold that arm up – here, let me show you –_

_Make it sexy, she ain’t your sister. Watch me first._

One-two-three-four –

Steve never stops counting heartbeats but the applause, when it comes, takes him by surprise.

 *

“To a job well done!” Bucky toasts jubilantly, the amber liquid spilling over his fingertips.

“Here, here.” Steve swigs it back blindly – and is rewarded with fire searing down his throat like he drank molten lava. Tears flood his vision as he chokes, face flushed and beading with sweat. “Nat,” he sputters weakly. “Nat!”

But Bucky notices his struggles first. “Jesus, kid,” he half-clucks, half-chuckles. “’S’posed to swallow it, not inhale it. Hey, can we get a water down here?”

Steve would protest, but in order to do that he needs to have use of his vocal cords and that definitely wasn’t happening anytime soon.

It’s a good five minutes before Steve recovers enough to breathe on his own. Bucky decides not to tempt fate any further (“And I sure as hell ain’t calling the good doctor to come resuscitate your ass,” he adamantly declares) and herds them both towards the car.

The ride back is quiet but comfortable, the pressure finally lifted. The tequila leaves him with a pleasant buzz and he melts back against the hard leather of the backseat.

Natalie tosses her fiery hair over her shoulder. “You did good tonight,” she calls back to him. “Very good.”

“Thanks.”

Maybe it’s the booze, maybe it’s that he has the self-preservation of a deer in rush-hour traffic, but he decides that some friendly conversation was in order. “So, uh. Sam said you two knew each other as kids?”

Natalie replies “Not exactly,” at the precise moment that Bucky says quickly, “Yeah.”

Steve glances amusedly between the two of them.

Finally, Natalie’s lips curl into a funny little smile, and she slides one slender arm along the back of the driver’s seat, twisting herself around to face Steve. “You repeat what I am about to tell you, I swear on my grandmother’s grave that your body will never be found.”

Bucky lets out a long, resigned sigh. “Nat.”

Steve’s eyebrows furrow, and his mother’s voice chimes in from nowhere, reminding him how curiosity killed the cat (and by extension, probably many other animals whose reflexes could not keep up with their inquisitive natures, so you listen well, Steven Grant). He gulps.

She extends a hand to Steve. “Natasha Romanoff,” she greets cordially. Bewildered, he shakes her hand slowly. “Nice to meet you.” The slow rolling of her speech reveal an accent that Steve had only heard on newsreels and radio broadcasts, and his eyes grow wide.  

This information washes over Steve like a bucket of ice water. “Romanoff?” he repeats dumbly. “Like, from _those_ Romanoffs? Are-are you in the _mob?_ ”

She smiles ruefully. “One of the only ones in my family who isn’t. It’s why I’m here, and not there.” Slack-jawed, Steve can only stare as he struggles to process this revelation.

“Like I said. You tell anyone, I make a phone call and suddenly you have an unfortunate accident.” The bright grin that follows is equal parts terrifying and beautiful.

“But-but I thought you weren’t-“

“I’m not. But I do happen to have a very doting family.”

Steve gulps, and slides down further against his seat.

*

They slink quietly into the resort with little fanfare, the uneven ground beneath the tires making for a bumpy, albeit silent, arrival. Steve finds his stomach sinking as he gathers his things from the backseat. Two straight weeks of hours-long rehearsals, spending nearly every waking moment practically attached at the hip to Bucky. And here they are, ready to get swept back up into the tide of their own separate worlds like none of it happened.

Natasha bids them goodnight with a casual wave of her hand and a peck on Steve’s cheek. She disappears silently into the inky blackness of the summer night.

_How does she do that?_ Steve wonders.

“Russian,” says Bucky knowingly, like that explains everything, and Steve must’ve said it aloud? Hands shoved in his pockets, he bumps Steve’s shoulder with his own. “All the stuff I can’t figure out, I just chalk it up to the Iron Curtain.” Steve chuckles. “Listen,” Bucky murmurs, the steel in his voice in sharp contrast to his previous easygoing comment, “what Nat told you tonight? I can count on one hand the number of people who know that. She trusts you.” The unspoken _and so do I, so don’t fuck this up_ does not go unnoticed.

Steve stares off into the distance as those words, implicit and otherwise, settle into his bones. He nods, finally.

It’s a few slow heartbeats before Steve can bring himself to turn to the taller man and thrust his hand out, absurdly formal. With a heavy sigh, he steels himself and says stiffly, “Well, uh. You take care, now.”

Something like…regret? passes over Bucky’s face, but it’s gone in an instant and could’ve been a trick of the moonlight, Steve can’t tell. After only a moment’s hesitation, he clasps Steve’s smaller hand in his warm one and shakes it. “Yeah. You too.”

“Yeah. Uh, alright then. ‘Night.” Numbly, Steve gives a curt nod.

“Steve?”

He pauses.

“Thanks.”

The smile he replies with is brief, but genuine.

*

The way Lorraine snores, he’s surprised she hasn’t woken the entire area code. He briefly considers smothering her with a pillow but honestly can’t muster up the energy it would require.

His thoughts instead drift towards a sweep of chestnut hair, floppy and unkempt from its owner constantly running his fingers through it.

Steve knows, as much as anyone knows him or herself within the innermost, secretive places of the heart, that he’s…different. He can admire beauty, male or female, with an appreciative eye, but unlike the other young men he knows, he isn’t drawn to the pinups and girlie magazines. If he’s really honest with himself, up until a couple of weeks ago, he wasn’t drawn to much of anything.

And now? He can hardly think of much else. But tomorrow he’d go back to admiring Bucky from afar, since they’d really have no reason to cross paths anymore. None the wiser that Steve looks at him like he’s the first sunny day after a long winter.

Unless.

_Unless_.

Steve grimaces. Apprehension chills his blood as the watery picture forms in his mind’s eye – Steve confessing his feelings in a dramatic spectacle, and Bucky coldly rejecting him. Or worse, _kindly_ rejecting him.

But the longer he lays in his twisted, sweaty sheets, the more the idea solidifies. Bucky doesn’t seem like the type to rat him out – especially since he’s entrusted Steve with a secret with far higher stakes. And, in the event that he wants nothing to do with Steve, well. Phillips’ is a big place. He wouldn’t have to work hard to make himself scarce.

The thought is far more disappointing than he cares to admit.

He throws on a t-shirt and a pair of pants.

*

He promises himself, as he climbs the rickety excuse for stairs that lead to Bucky’s door, that no matter how this plays out, that he won’t be sorry. He’ll have showed his hand and been honest with himself, and resolves that he will walk away with a clear conscience.

Still, though, it doesn’t prevent the sick, restless apprehension from rising in his chest as he stops. Something like a condemned man standing at the guillotine. _Dramatic, Rogers, always so dramatic,_ he admonishes himself.

The soft strains of a record player waft through the open windows. Something lush and melodic. His pulse pounding in his ears, he knocks firmly on the weathered screen door.

A shadow passes through the amber lamplight, and then he’s there. Bucky.

“Hi,” Steve all but croaks.

“Hi.”

“Can I come in?”

The door creaks open, and Bucky beckons him inside. He’s not wearing a shirt.

It’s a sparse little room with secondhand furniture and a couple shade-less lamps. There are little hints of Bucky, though – the record player prominently displayed on a dresser, an assortment of albums scattered about. Steve absorbs it all, the stark contrast between this and his family’s opulent accommodations.

“It’s not much,” and is that… _embarrassment_ , in Bucky’s voice? “Wasn’t expecting company, sorry.”

“No, no. Don’t apologize,” Steve reassures him. “I didn’t exactly call ahead.”

Bucky hastily shoves aside a small pile of clothes on the nearest chair and gestures towards it. Steve settles himself into the seat. “So, uh. What brings you here at…twelve-thirty?” Internally, Steve cringes. He could’ve at least done this at a reasonable hour, but alas, that ship has sailed. All he can do now is finish what he started.

“Um. Well.”

Bucky just continues to stare expectantly.

“No real easy way to say this,” mutters Steve. “And, uh, if you tell me go to hell, I get it. So…no pressure. All I'm asking is that you keep it between you and I.” He dares a glance up at Bucky, whose impressive arms are crossed over his lithe chest, regarding the smaller man curiously.

“What, you need help hiding a body or something? Borrowed cash from the mob?” The funny tilt to his lips, the laugh in his eyes – he’s waiting for a punchline. For Steve to confess with great remorse that he forgot to say grace before dinner.

He could still walk away from this unscathed, the butterflies in Steve’s stomach remind him. He could chuckle along with Bucky, make some excuse about how he can’t sleep and just wants to shoot the shit with somebody. He could.

He doesn’t.

Ruefully, Steve presses his lips together into a thin line and takes a deep, cleansing breath. “No, no bodies. No mob. I, uh. I just need you to know something, because I can’t live with myself if I walk out of here and never tell you. The way I feel when I’m with you, Bucky, it’s like nothing I’ve ever known. It’s like my skin, my whole body, it’s humming every time you’re around. I can’t help it.” He clasps his hands together and speaks softly, eyes downcast. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

The record player continues to croon, but all Steve can hear is silence.

With nothing but his own heartbeat in his ears, the quiet is so tense it feels as though it’s pushing him from the room. It stretches on, and on, and Steve’s heart sinks a little deeper into his gut. “I don’t expect anything from you,” he continues, driving all of his strength into keeping his voice from wavering. “I just…needed you to know.”

It’s all out there now, laid bare. Steve finds that he can’t bear to see the rejection, or pity, or worse – disgust – in Bucky’s face. He can’t. He has to afford himself that one small mercy, so he turns his face as he rises on shaky knees. The door is only a few short paces away.

Steve makes it about halfway before a firm hand shoots out and grasps his elbow. He freezes immediately, and lifts his eyes to Bucky’s. He sees none of the things he had feared, but something dark and unreadable is brewing in Bucky’s intense gaze. It’s stunning and exhilarating and Steve wonders if this is how it feels to skydive.

Bucky’s grip is tight where he’s squeezing Steve’s forearm. Ever so slowly, he loosens, and silently trails his fingers along the trim line of the shorter man’s bicep, leaving a scalding trail in their wake.

Steve couldn’t begin to name the maelstrom of emotions that pass through the shadows of Bucky’s handsome face. All he knows is that he’s rooted to that spot, terrified to move, to break the spell that’s settled over them both like morning fog. They’re so close now, enough where Steve can count the flecks of gray in his eyes, feel the heat of his breath dust his collarbone.

The record player clicks, and there’s a momentary crackle of static as the next song kicks on. The soulful, sultry opening strains – it’s a popular song, one Steve recognizes –

Softly, he murmurs, “Dance with me.”

“What, here?”

“Here.” Steve gently separates himself from Bucky’s grasp and turns to face him properly.

_When your baby leaves you all alone_

_And nobody calls you on the phone_

He slides his arms around Bucky’s neck, drawing himself flush against all that hard muscle. His legs set themselves apart, one slotted between the taller man’s knees. The ghost of a memory, not all that long ago, of a smoky room and the solid press of Bucky against his back, floats to the front of Steve’s mind. Could he dare to hope that maybe they were always meant to end up here? His fingers wander over the nape of Bucky’s neck before skimming down the hard planes of his deltoids.  

The gentle, rhythmic sway of his hips is next. The music sets the pace, but Steve, he _leads._ He grinds teasingly against his partner, feeling sexy and powerful as Bucky lets out a tiny, stuttered sigh.

_Don’t you feel like crying_

_Don’t you feel like crying_

_Well here I am my honey_

_Come on, cry to me_

One strong hand slides between Steve's shoulder blades, tentative, like he's still not convinced this isn't all a cruel joke. Carefully, he caresses the rise and fall of each rung of his spine, sending a wicked shiver racing through Steve's veins.

He steals a glimpse into Bucky’s eyes. He's nearly blown away with the raw desire that he's met with - pupils that swallow that icy blue, a faint flush reddening his cheeks, the tiny space where his lips have fallen open just the slightest. Emboldened, he dares a filthy roll of his hips against him, a seductive echo of Bucky’s teachings, his reminders to _feel the music._

The stuttered gasp from Bucky proves that Steve was quite a good student after all.

It's now that their lips finally meet. Steve pours everything into that moment: all the longing, the admiration, the intoxication that's inundated him since the moment he laid eyes on the man. His mouth is searing on Steve’s, rich and sweet with the ghost of whiskey and cigarettes lingering after. It’s exactly what Steve was hoping for and at the same time, better beyond anything he could dream of.

Steve’s shirt flutters to the floor, carelessly tossed aside.

With this expanse of pale skin suddenly exposed and ripe for the taking, Bucky surges forward with a feral groan and grabs Steve’s ass in both palms. With no warning at all he lifts the smaller man into his arms effortlessly, legs circling Bucky’s slim waist, and latches his mouth onto one pink nipple. Steve’s so ravenous for it that he can’t even be bothered to cringe at the embarrassingly inhuman cry that escapes his throat.

_Nothing can be sadder than a glass of wine alone_

_Loneliness, loneliness is such a waste of time_

They tumble clumsily onto Bucky’s bed, making quick work of the remainder of their clothes. When Steve’s lying back into the pillows, cock so painfully hard that it’s nearly flush with his belly, Bucky sits back on his knees and just stares.

With a tiny smile, Steve murmurs, “What?”

“Beautiful,” Bucky answers softly. He settles himself between Steve’s thighs and glances up. Steve nearly comes just from the sight. “This okay?” One hand circles the base of Steve’s cock, squeezing gently.

“Y-yes,” Steve chokes, voice cracking.

With a chuckle, Bucky strokes him lazily, paying very close attention to how his touches translate into little moans or thrusts. Like he wants to learn Steve. Like this might not be the only time that this happens between them.

And then he dips down and closes his lips around the leaking head. Steve honest-to-God _sobs_.

He wants to last longer, his pride and dignity are outright insulted by the mere minute that it’ll take him to hit his peak. But once Bucky’s tongue laves around the sensitive underside of his length, bobs his head a few times to swallow down his length, he’s gone like a runaway train. The orgasm swells within his balls and rushes through his body so hard it’s nearly violent. He gushes into Bucky’s mouth with a savage cry, each wave just as powerful as the last. Bucky stays put throughout as his throat works hard to accommodate the

Finally, the pleasure subsides and he’s left trembling beneath Bucky’s intensely-focused gaze. Sheepishly, he realizes that he probably should have warned him before he flooded the man’s mouth with come. “Oh, God,” he croaks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

“Don’t,” Bucky breathes. “I…I liked it.” He’s almost…shy about it? It’s such a boyish look on his handsome face. Steve’s charmed, if he wasn’t head over heels already.

“Can I…for you?” he offers hopefully.

Bucky doesn’t reply, just climbs up the bed next to Steve and flips himself onto his back, knees falling open wantonly. Steve places himself in the V of his legs and hopes he looks more confident in himself than he feels.

With a discerning eye, Bucky’s fingers close gently around Steve’s slender wrist. “I can talk you through it,” he suggests quietly.

“That obvious, huh?” he replies dryly.

“I don’t mind.” Bucky proceeds to patiently guide Steve, first showing him how to use just his hand, then with his lips wrapped around just the tip. Steve, being the quick study that he is, catches on fast. It’s not long before he’s got Bucky halfway down his throat and pinning his hips to the bed with one forearm. The sounds that he’s drawing from the older man are shamelessly filthy, mixed in with muttered unintelligible curses and harsh pants.

“Stop,” he growls after one particularly lewd stroke of Steve’s lips down his length. At the question in Steve’s eyes, Bucky elaborates, “Don’t wanna be done before we get to the main event, sweetheart.”

Steve settles back onto his heels as Bucky pulls himself up to sitting. He chases Steve’s lips with his own before murmuring, “Unless you’d rather we not.” His eyes, earnest and bright, search the blonde man’s for confirmation. “It’s alright if you don’t.”

Steve holds his gaze for a long moment before he answers. “I do. Want to, that is.” His heart kicks up a few beats as he leans in for a tender kiss, surprisingly chaste given their current activities.

Bucky smiles. “Lay back.”

They exchange places, and Steve tries to keep his nerves at bay while Bucky rummages around next to the bed. He knows the mechanics of sex between a man and a woman, but what actually happens between two men is a mystery to him.

Not that he’d never had any ideas on his own, of course.

Bucky returns with a small bottle of something clear, and two of his fingers slick and glistening. “You sure you’re okay with this?”

He nods shyly as he settles back into the pillows. Gently Bucky nudges his knees apart, and the hungry way he stares at him has Steve’s blood roaring through his veins.

He starts a little as Bucky’s finger makes contact with his hole, tentative and soothing, circling the snug ring of muscle there. “Relax,” Bucky reassures him. “I’m gonna make you feel good, I promise.”

Steve tries to follow his instructions, but the sensation is so foreign.

The massaging gradually turns to slight pressure as the tip of Bucky’s finger slides inside. “So tight,” Bucky breathes, eyes glazed and glassy. Deeper he goes, the slick drag of skin against skin leaving delicious friction in its wake, sliding in and out of Steve’s wet heat. His lips fall open and he moans luridly.

“So fucking hot,” Bucky purrs. “Can’t wait to be inside you.” With that, he adds another finger and drives them both into Steve firmly, all the way to the knuckles. The smaller man _howls_.

“That’s it,” Bucky whispers, voice heavy with lust. “I think you’re ready for me, baby.” Steve whimpers at the loss of Bucky’s thick fingers, but is quickly cut off by their replacement – blunt and rigid and lightly pushing at his hole.

_Oh, God,_ he thinks, _Bucky’s cock, Bucky’s gonna put his cock inside me_ , as his body opens to accept where the other man is driving forward into him. He can’t help it, he cries out at the stretch and burn.

Trembling, Bucky pauses. “You okay?” he chokes. Steve nods weakly and Bucky continues his push into where he’s open and waiting.

When he’s fully seated inside of Steve, he slips his palms beneath the blonde’s shoulder blades and pulls their bodies flush together. “God, you feel so damn good.” A bead of sweat drips from his brow into Steve’s floppy, damp locks. “Look at you.”

His thrusts start shallow and achingly drawn-out. The not-quite-pain and awkward discomfort make Steve squirm at first, and just when it’s starting to bridge into soreness, Bucky’s cock drags over this spot that makes him surge forward with pleasure. “Holy-“

“Good?” Bucky smirks, trying for smug but undermined by his own breathy pants.

“Do that-do it again, please.”

He’s all too happy to comply. Steve’s legs spread further apart of their own accord, wanting Bucky as deep inside him as he could be. He makes sure to angle himself just so that he hits that spot, that place inside Steve that sends lust racing like wildfire through him. The pace picks up with each slide forward until Bucky’s slamming himself into him over and over, both of them crying out as the pure carnal pleasure overtakes them.

“Stevie,” Bucky chokes out. “I’m gonna come, you’re too fucking tight, I can’t last-“

“Do it,” Steve answers in the same strangled voice. “Please.”

Bucky’s eyes squeeze shut as a ragged moan rips from his throat. His thrusts lose their rhythm as he pumps in one, two, three times before driving himself as deep as he can go. Steve’s slick now, and the lewd knowledge that it’s Bucky’s come that’s dripping from him sets him off just as hard. The orgasm whites out his vision for a few long moments, leaving him gasping and breathless.

Bucky collapses on top of Steve. Sweaty and spent, he drops his head into the small space between Steve’s shoulder and throat, uncaring of the sticky mess streaked across his chest.

As the heavy fog of lust clears from around them, the gravity of what he’s just done looms darkly on the horizon. This is big. He can feel it down in the marrow of his bones. In the morning, he’d have to face it head-on, look it in the eye.

But as he lay cocooned in Bucky’s arms, fingers twined through his damp locks, he can’t bring himself to mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY DID THE THING! :O
> 
> :P I took a few creative liberties with Natasha's background - it was just too good of a chance to pass up. 
> 
> Thanks everyone for the kudos and kind words so far! I'm on tumblr, too - we-dont-need-pants.tumblr.com - come cry with me over these two assholes.


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